Cold Coffee
by fhestia
Summary: A chance meeting at a coffee shop on New Year's Day finds the Doctor under the weather. Twelfth Doctor sickfic with fluff, friendship and caretaking. Follow-up to "Christmas in TARDIS Blue."
1. Chapter 1

_You're late. _

Clara typed in the words emphatically. It was taking a little too long for Danny's response and she stood glaring at her mobile until his return message popped up.

_Still at home, sorry._

She lifted her head at the sound of impatient murmuring behind her, surprised to see the queue had already reached the counter. She stepped forward quickly.

"Vanilla latte, please," she said, hoping the barista could hear her over all the clattering, banging and swooshing. She didn't feel like raising her voice, not when her throbbing head was reminding her she'd had a little too much to drink the night before.

Her text notification sounded and Clara sighed, pressing her fingers into her temples before firing off a response.

_So what's up? This was your idea._

She stopped herself from adding that she could be listening to rain pelting the windows from the comfort of her cozy bed right now instead of standing elbow-to-elbow in a noisy coffee shop watching people rush in with papers over their heads, collars clutched tight against the wind. She couldn't remember why she agreed to meet him here today; probably an alcohol-induced New Year's Eve resolution on her part to spend more quality time together.

_Woke up with a cold._

Clara spotted a clerk heading for the counter, holding aloft a cup bearing her name. She plucked it from his hand before he could speak, offering what she hoped was a charming smile for her abruptness. She took a careful sip. The hot liquid seared her tongue a bit but she didn't care; she needed caffeine and sugar and she needed it now. She thumbed in a short return message.

_Too bad. Want some company?_

His reply came quickly.

_I don't want you to catch this._

From somewhere amongst a chorus of coughing and sniffling, she heard a particularly harsh sneeze cut through the babble of voices. She shuddered a little. She didn't want to catch anything either. Time to scurry back home with her precious coffee.

_Okay. Get some rest. And call me later. XX Clara_

She turned to leave and then hesitated, casting a longing glance at the crowded tables and booths. She had a new novel tucked away in her bag and it would be pleasant to relax and finish her coffee while it was still hot instead of squelching back home in the rain. Maybe she would take her chances with the germ bombardment if she could find a place to sit down.

She edged past a tiny booth near the window and heard the same harsh sneeze as before.

"Bless you," she murmured, then froze when a familiar voice thanked her.

She whirled around, coming face to face with the Doctor. He sat slouched over the table, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee, dabbing at his nose with a paper napkin.

"Hiya," Clara said when she finally found her voice. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"And where should I be?" He somehow managed to convey a deep sense of lethargy in only five hoarse and blunted syllables.

"I don't know," she said, shrugging. "Here's as good a place as any, I suppose." Her head hurt too much to play word games with him. "I guess I didn't expect to see you so soon after Christmas."

He crumpled the napkin and shoved it into a pocket of his coat, pulling a fresh one from the dispenser. Clara frowned as she studied his face in profile. He seemed to be wearing all the clothes in his wardrobe today, jumper, hooded jacket, overcoat and still managed to look shivery and a little miserable.

"Can I sit down?" she asked.

He shrugged and she slid into the seat opposite from him.

"So," she said, taking a sip of her coffee, wishing he would at least make eye contact with her. "What are you doing here?"

"Manicure appointment," he said, his voice a weak rasp.

"Sorry, stupid question."

He nodded in agreement, taking a long swallow of his coffee, then grimaced and reached for the little caddy of sugar packets, pulling it toward him. Clara's teeth ached while she watched him methodically open and dump in five packets. He began to stir his coffee, stirring in a regular pattern, twice clockwise, one anticlockwise.

He looked rumpled this morning, hair tousled like he'd just rolled out of bed, lines on his face a little more pronounced, shadows under his eyes, tiny frown barely creasing his brow. Clara tried not to worry. Sometimes he fell into moods like this, pensive, thoughtful, not inclined to speak. She knew enough to leave him alone to work out whatever was troubling him. He'd talk to her when he was ready.

The silence between them stretched out, broken only by the clinking of the spoon and his sniffling.

"Feeling under the weather today?" she asked.

He raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment as he tried the coffee again, apparently finding it more to his liking this time.

I guess it's to be expected," Clara said, "Running around in the snow without your coat on Christmas."

"You don't catch cold from exposure to the weather," he said, making an irritated congested sound on the last word.

"No, you catch cold from being around a group of small, infectious children," Clara said. "Danny's ill, too."

"Then why aren't you with him?" he asked. "Bustling around being all solicitous and helpful and soothing his fevered brow."

Clara laughed. "Do I look like the bustling sort?"

He studied her for a moment, appearing to take the question seriously. "I think you could bustle, given the chance."

He was beginning to act a little brighter, some animation returning to his face as they spoke, but Clara knew it was a temporary boost from the large amount of sugar he'd just ingested. The subsequent crash would be spectacular.

"So, where's the TARDIS?" she asked, trying for nonchalance. "I didn't see it in the middle of my sitting room for once."

"Around," he said, waving his hand in the general direction of the street. "I don't remember."

"D'you think we should find it?"

"There's no hurry," he said, tucking himself into the corner of the booth and stretching his legs across the seat.

"Could come in handy," she said, folding her arms on the table. "If you're starting with a cold, you could just pop ahead a week to a point when you're healthy again and skip the whole suffering bit."

"Doesn't work that way, I'm afraid," he said, turning his head to look at her "You know about fixed points in time?"

Clara nodded, unsure where his line of reasoning was headed.

"Just like temporal fixed points, there are also physiological fixed points."

Clara turned the idea over in her mind as she finished the last of her latte. "Are you telling me every sniffle or stomach ache you get is some kind of...biological destiny?"

"Not exactly," he said.."But once a disease process is established, it has to run its normal course." His hands traced an illustrative pattern in the air as he continued. "If I go forward or backward and the illness disappears, I'm not cured. It's still waiting for me when I return to my normal timestream."

"So you have to hang around and get it over with," Clara said. "Hardly seems fair. You'd think being a Time Lord would carry some advantages."

"There's our superior Gallifreyan physiology," he said. "We very seldom fall ill."

He frowned then and Clara's expression mirrored his. She didn't put it into words but he seemed more prone to minor aches and pains and ailments now. She'd often catch him wincing and pressing a hand into his back after he'd exerted himself or leaning his full weight against the TARDIS console following a trip, exhaustion evident on his face.

"I guess the rules have changed." he said, eyes drifting shut.

Clara made a sympathetic noise. "I'm sorry. I know how much you hate being stuck in one place."

He didn't answer, his face slackening and head gently rolling to the side. After a few minutes, his breathing slowed and deepened. One arm twitched, then a leg, then he brought a hand up to rub at his nose. She smiled, thinking he looked very much like a puppy having a nightmare.

Clara shifted her attention to the window but the street was obscured by a layer of condensation on the glass. She traced one finger through it, drawing a smiley face and then wiping it away with the flat of her hand. She felt oddly content sitting here, listening to the subdued chatter of the other patrons, the warm heady atmosphere making her drowsy. She covered a yawn with one hand and then her eyes flew open in surprise when the Doctor gave a loud, rattling snore.

He startled awake, one elbow crashing into the table, jostling everything on the surface. He rubbed his arm, sitting up and looking around himself in confusion.

"You were sleeping," she said helpfully.

He coughed and cleared his throat. "I don't need sleep, Clara."

"Then what did you call that?" she asked. "The whole 'eyes closed and snoring' bit?"

"Meditative healing state," he said, straightening the caddies and dispensers on the table.

"Mm-hm. And do you always drool on yourself during a meditative healing state?"

He swiped at his chin, meeting her eyes briefly before feigning interest in something across the shop. "I may have dozed off," he said. "Briefly."

Clara reached across the table, placing a hand on his arm and holding it there until he looked at her. "The sooner you get some rest," she said, "The sooner you'll be back on your feet and saving the universe from peril. What do you say?"

"A few days off won't hurt, I suppose," he said. "And I never did get to read the book I'd been meaning to."

"Well, there you go," Clara said. "Come on, I'll walk with you."

Clara didn't relish the idea of traipsing all over in the rain, trying to find the TARDIS, but at least she came prepared for foul weather. She pulled a little foldable umbrella from her bag as they exited the shop, one that would probably collapse at the slightest wind but at least it gave the illusion of protection.

"You'll have to hold it for both of us," she said, handing it to him.

The Doctor accepted it from her, turning it in his hands, eyes widening when he found the release button and it snapped open in his face. They stepped out together, Clara pressed tightly to his side although the canopy was so far above her head it didn't do much to keep the rain off.

"Can't you use your sonic to find the TARDIS?" she asked after another fruitless search down a side street.

"I could," he said. "If I had it with me."

"Of course."

He stopped walking suddenly but Clara didn't realize until she found herself a few steps ahead getting pelted with a cold, driving rain.

She rushed back to the shelter of the umbrella. "You okay?" she asked. He turned from her, burying his face in the sleeve of his coat as a forceful sneeze nearly bent him double.

"Sorry," he said, shivering. "Can't seem to stop doing that today." He pulled the crumpled napkin from his coat pocket.

"Not with that," Clara said, rummaging in her bag. "You should see your poor nose." She passed him a packet of paper handkerchiefs and took the umbrella, going up on her tiptoes with her arm extended to make sure it didn't bump him.

"Must you watch?" he asked, fumbling a tissue from the pack.

"Just get on with it," she said. "Pretend I'm not here."

She glanced over her shoulder, studying a tiny shop window with an enticing display of books. She'd not seen the shop before, perhaps they could duck in out of the rain and and have a look around. When she turned back to mention it, her attention was drawn to an alleyway and a flash of blue spotted out of the corner of her eye. She tapped his arm, keeping her eyes on the box, lest she lose sight of it..

"What is it?" His patience and energy seemed to be dwindling the longer he was on his feet.

"I think you're home," Clara said.

_**A/N: **Story idea suggested by a few readers of "Christmas in TARDIS Blue" who thought a NYD cold might result from running around in the snow with no coat on. I was more than happy to oblige because I'm always ready to write more fluffy Twelve sickfics._


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm surprised we found the TARDIS at all," Clara said, dodging another puddle as they made their way along the narrow side alley. She could just see it tucked into the space between two abandoned skips.

"I couldn't leave her out in the open," the Doctor said, thrusting one hand inside his coat and withdrawing a key from the inside pocket. "Any closer to the pavement and people might think it was an actual phone box. I'd never get any peace."

He fumbled the key in his fingers and Clara made an unsuccessful grab for it as it tumbled to the ground, glinting silver in the gloomy light.

"Oh," he said, taking a step backward and peering at the ground. "Well, that's unfortunate. I don't think I have a spare on me."

Clara handed off the umbrella. "I think I saw where it went." she said, crouching and trying to avoid contact with the wet stones. She inched forward a few steps, patting at the ground, then tugged at the leg of his trousers. You're standing on it, " she said.

"What?"

"I said you're standing on it," she said, raising her voice. "Lift your foot."

He moved to the side and she retrieved the key, holding it between two fingers and wiping it off on the edge of her sleeve. He held his hand out, wiggling his fingers impatiently. Clara hesitated. He seemed distracted and a little dazed and she didn't trust his ability to work even a simple lock at the moment. Finally she sighed and pressed it into his palm. How much harm could he do?

On his first try he missed the lock altogether, the key making a jagged scrape along one of the panels.

"Do you need a hand?" she asked. He frowned down at the key and then looked over at Clara.

"I can open a door by myself," he said, turning back to his task, brow furrowed in concentration and tongue protruding slightly.

"'Course you can," she said. "Sorry." She watched as he tried to insert the key upside down into the lock and then after a moment of consideration, sideways.

"There, you see?" he said, when the key finally went in on his fourth attempt. "No assistance needed."

He grunted softly as he tried to unlock the door. "It won't turn," he said. "There's something wrong with the lock." He leaned an arm against the door, resting his head against it.

"Maybe you're turning it the wrong way?"

He scoffed. "Ridiculous."

"You could let me have a go," she suggested.

"Shush, Clara, let me think." He snapped his fingers after a moment and turned to face her. "You have lots of hair," he said.

"And so do you," she said, eyeing him suspiciously as he approached her. "I don't see how it applies to our current situation, though."

"Did you know I once spent a weekend in London with Alfred Hobbs?" he said, moving even closer. "Amusing fellow. Taught me all his tricks when we found ourselves llocked out of our boarding house one evening." The Doctor buried one hand in her hair. "Come on, let's have it."

"Oi!" she yelped, swatting his hand away. "Let's have what? And who the hell is Alfred Hobbs?"

"Famous American locksmith?" he said. "And all that hair, Clara. You must have a Kirby grip in there somewhere."

"I don't have a Kirby grip," she said patiently. "And I really think you should try turning the key the other way before you resort to picking the lock."

He threw his hands up in resignation as he stalked back to the TARDIS.

"Fine, just to prove to you that the lock is broken and no matter what I try, it will never-" He fell silent as the key turned in his fingers and the lock opened with a satisfying click.

Clara blew out a relieved breath as the Doctor raised a hand and slowly pushed the door open.

"You'll be okay on your own?" she asked. She'd had no hesitation about leaving Danny to fend for himself, so why the sudden wave of melancholy when she thought of the Doctor ill and alone in the vast space of the TARDIS?

"Why wouldn't I be?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder at her.

"Yeah, of course," she said with a shrug. "Why wouldn't you be?"

He pocketed the key and waved a hand dismissively. "Go help P.E."

"Danny doesn't need my help."

"Neither do I."

Clara's chest constricted at his abrupt words.

"Okay then," she said, barely able to see him through the steady patter of rain streaming from the edge of the umbrella. "I'll see you, Doctor. Take care of yoursel-"

He stepped inside and shut the door firmly before she could finish her sentence.

She shook her head, not quite believing what just happened. What a very strange New Year's day it was turning out to be. Well, forget him. Let him try to manage on his own. Didn't need her help, did he? He'd still be wandering the streets looking for his TARDIS if it weren't for her.

As she turned to leave, the door flew open. The Doctor stood silhouetted in the doorway, the lights from the console room so bright she couldn't read his expression.

"Clara," he said, his voice sharp with exasperation. "Where did you go?"

"Where did I-?" She ran a hand across her eyes, her headache beginning to reassert itself. "I didn't _go_ anywhere. You shut the door in my face."

"I thought you were behind me."

"Not behind you," she said, indicating her current position with a wave of her arm. "Standing right here. In the rain. Where you left me."

"Well, stop it," he said, stepping forward and extending a hand toward her. "Come inside or you'll end up catching cold, too, and I don't want to deal with you when you're ill and grumpy."

She edged past him, ignoring his welcoming gesture. "Yes, because you've been so reasonable and pleasant," she said, shaking the umbrella dry and propping it near the door.

She lifted her bag over her head and dumped it near the door, then shrugged out of her coat and draped it over the railing. The Doctor remained in place, blinking slowly as he followed her movements.

"Now you," she said.

"Now me what?"

"You're dripping all over," she said.

He tilted his head to the side, brow furrowed in puzzlement, not quite putting the pieces together.

"Take off your coat," Clara said, emphasizing each word. "You're soaked, in case you haven't noticed."

He nodded, fingers working the top button clumsily. Clara sighed and stepped close to him.

"You're going to end up with pneumonia at the rate you're going," she said. He opened his mouth to protest and she silenced him with a look. "Stand still." She quickly unfastened the row of buttons and stepped behind him to ease the sodden coat from his shoulders.

"I don't see h..how this is helping, Clara," he said, voice beginning to tremble as he shivered. "Now I'm colder than before."

"Yes, I know," she said, draping his coat over the railing next to hers. "But you're a little drier now and we're not going to stand around chit-chatting."

"We're not?"

"No," she said. "We're going to find a comfortable place for you to curl up and have a nice rest."

"I don't need to rest."

How did he provoke such conflicting emotions in her? She wanted to give him a good shake for his stubbornness and also gather him up for a cuddle because he looked so sleepy and miserable.

"No arguments," she said, looping her arm through his. "You're ill and you're going to rest, like it or not. Maybe after a nap you won't be so cranky."

She tried to guide him toward the door leading to the corridors but he twitched away from her, stumbling to the side and catching himself against the console. After a quick circuit to gain momentum, he made his way erratically to the bottom of the staircase.

"No, Doctor, not your chair," Clara said.

He looked toward the upper level and then back at her. "What's wrong with my chair?"

"Nothing's wrong with it," she said. "But you're ill. Don't you have a bedroom somewhere?"

"No bedroom," he said firmly. He gripped the railing with one hand as he lifted his foot and planted it carefully on the first step. "I don't like it in there. It's all shadows and dark corners and things lurking under the bed."

He wobbled and Clara moved close beside him, extending one arm extended behind his back. She couldn't do much to protect him but maybe she'd cushion his fall if he toppled over.

"Take it slowly," she said.

"This may come as a surprise to you," he said, as he began his ascent, "But I can actually open doors and take off my coat and even walk up steps without your help."

Just as she opened her mouth to reply, the toe of one boot caught on a riser and he stumbled, nearly going to his knees. He waved her off impatiently when she tried to help him up.

"Maybe stairs aren't a great idea if you're feeling a little unsteady," she said.

"I'm not unsteady, Clara," he snapped. "It's you. You're distracting me, all that bouncing around and nattering on while I'm trying to concentrate."

He stomped up the final steps, leaving Clara looking after him in exasperation. His indignant composure fell apart as he bent forward, overcome with a wheezy-sounding cough. She joined him at the top of the stairs, moving him gently in the direction of his chair. He sank into the seat, drawing in a shuddering breath and wiping his eyes as the coughing fit passed.

"You okay?" she asked.

"A little chilly," he said, huddling at the edge of the chair, pulling in his arms and making his body as compact as possible.

"Yeah, it's freezing up here," she said, shivering in a sudden draft that swept up from the floor of the console room. "This won't help you shake off your cold."

"I think there's little chance of that now," he said, eyes downcast as he sniffled.

"No, I suppose not."

He started to speak again, then a pained expression crossed his face and turned from her, stifling a harsh double sneeze into a loosely-clasped fist.

"Bless you."

"This is boring, Clara," he moaned, flopping back into the chair. "I've never felt more bored in my life." He pressed the heels of both hands against his eyes. "How long do colds usually last?"

"Around a week," she said. "Give or take a few days."

"A week? You mean a normal, seven-day, _endless _week?" His voice cracked on the last word.

"Afraid so," she said. "But the worst of the sneezing and sniffling and general misery should be over in a few days. If you're lucky you'll sleep through most of it."

"If I can sleep at all," he grumbled.

"Well, sit tight. I'll see if I can find a pillow and some blankets."

"Clara, wait," the Doctor called as she moved toward the steps. "To your right, under the chalkboard, there should be a trunk."

She turned, squinting into the gloom.

"Do you see it?" he asked.

"Yes," she called back, kneeling in front of the board. She reached out and ran one hand over the burnished dark wood of an ornate chest, her fingers tracing the overlapping and intricate circular script carved into its surface. She unfastened the hasps and used both hands to ease the lid open, which moved smoothly and noiselessly. When her eyes adjusted, Clara saw the trunk was filled with quilts and coverlets, folded neatly and arranged with care. She lifted one out, studying the exquisite stitching before pressing the age-softened fabric to her cheek.

"They're beautiful," she said, moving back to the chair. "Where did you find them all?"

"Most were gifts," he said as Clara unfolded the heaviest quilt and tucked it around him. "But some of them-"

His voice trailed off as one long finger traced the lines of a split nine-patch pattern in dark shades of blue, lingering over the embroidered letters _SJS._

"Some were left behind," he finally said, eyes growing distant.

Clara remained silent, not asking any of the questions running through her head. There would be time for that later when he was feeling better.

"I need a good supply of blankets if I'm going to travel with humans," he said, his manner brisk but his face betraying sadness. "I never know when someone is going to pass out or go into shock or require a nap." He yawned hugely and turned to his side, drawing the quilt around himself.

"Speaking of naps," Clara said, perching herself on the arm of the chair and letting her head rest against the winged back. She made a small noise of surprise when he reached for her, interlacing their fingers and pressing their joined hands against his chest.

She held her breath, waiting for him to speak.

"I'm sorry," he said after a moment.

"For what?'

"I didn't mean to sound so abrupt earlier." He looked up at her then, his wide eyes filled with guilt and regret.

"It's okay," she said. "I'm used to you by now. And you have a miserable cold. It's enough to make anyone grumpy."

He started to reply but yawned again, eyes drifting shut. Clara straightened and stood from the chair, gently extricating her hand from his. He frowned at this and she rested her fingers against his forehead, smoothing the crease between his brows with one thumb.

"I'm forgetting something, " he mumbled suddenly.

"Thought you were asleep," she said, moving her hand from his forehead to the side of his face.

"There's something I have to do," he said, frown deepening. "Something important. What is it?"

"I don't know." Her mind wasn't on their conversation. He felt warm to her touch and was beginning to shiver despite the heavy quilts covering him. "But whatever it is, it can wait. I think you're running a fever."

He sighed, body sagging into the depths of the chair. "Don't leave," he murmured.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said. "I promise."

* * *

><p>Clara startled awake, book dropping from her hand with a thump. She thought she'd heard a voice calling her name. A student? She pushed herself up on one elbow, blinking and rubbing her eyes. But this wasn't her classroom.<p>

She sat up and looked around, feeling confused until the quiet thrum of engines finally penetrated her sleepy state. The TARDIS. But if she were on the TARDIS, then there was only person who could have been calling her. She whirled to face the stairs, her breath catching in her throat as she saw the Doctor poised at the very top step. At some point he'd managed to kick off his boots and now wore only a pair of stripey socks.

"Clara," he called, his voice raspy. "That something I forgot? The important something? I just remembered what it was." Even from a distance she could see his face was flushed, eyes unnaturally bright.

"Doctor, wait,' she said, trying to untangle herself from the quilt, grogginess making her movements slow and clumsy. "Sit back down."

"I'm okay," he said, taking one wobbly step. "I'm feeling much better."

She freed herself and tossed the blanket aside. She reached the bottom of the stairs just as his feet slipped out from under him and he pitched forward, his head slamming into the metal handrail before he crumpled.


	3. Chapter 3

Shock and a sense of unreality kept Clara pinned in place, watching the Doctor tumble to the bottom of the stairs, limp and loose-limbed. He came to rest on his side, one arm outstretched, legs sprawled awkwardly.

Clara rushed to his side, going to her knees next to him, forgetting all safety precautions as she pulled him into her lap. She pressed her fingers to his neck, calming a little when she felt a strong, steady pulse. She leaned over him, stroking his forehead, and after a minute that seemed more like an hour, he made a guttural noise and lifted his head slightly.

He licked dry, cracked lips before speaking, each word an effort.

"What happened?"

"You fell," she said. She'd stick to simple answers until he was more aware of his surroundings.

His eyes flew open, gaze darting around before settling on her face. The sclera of his right eye was shot through with red, the skin around it already beginning to swell. He struggled to raise himself, feet sliding against the floor as he scooted away from her, one hand flailing for anything solid.

Clara braced herself against the railing, letting him use her for support. Once upright, a tiny rivulet of blood worked its way down his temple. She pulled her sleeve down, using the fabric to gently wipe the worst of it away. He flinched, moaning low in his throat and then sagged against her, face going slack, head dropping to her her shoulder.

"Doctor," she asked. "Can you hear me?" Clara wrapped her arms around him, rubbing his back briskly to try to bring him around. "Come on," she said, raising her voice to penetrate his daze. "Wake up, Doctor."

He turned toward her, eyebrows drawn together in a fierce frown.

"Stop shouting, Sarah Jane," he mumbled. "I don't need a doctor."

Clara next words died on her lips. She pressed her fingers to her mouth to keep the questions from tumbling out.

_Who is Sarah Jane? Does she have anything to do with the SJS embroidered on the quilt? And why are you speaking to her in the same irritated tone you always use with me? _

She probably didn't want to know the answers and this certainly wasn't the time to ask. He looked horrible and Clara felt responsible. She should have tried to stay awake, checked on him more often, moved faster when he tried to make it down the stairs.

"Come on, lift your head," she said, trying to quell the panic she felt rising in her chest. "Look at me."

He reluctantly moved his head from her shoulder, tilting his chin up at an unnatural angle, trying to focus his eyes on her face.

"Clara," he said finally.

"That's right," she said, unable to keep from smiling in relief She placed two fingers under his chin, gently moving his head from side to side. He winced with the movement, trying to pull away from her.

"Are you in any pain?" she asked.

"I feel like I've been beaten up," he said, cupping a hand protectively over his injured eye. "Were we in a fight?"

"You fell down the stairs."

"Ah." He thought for a moment. "Why did I do that? Did you push me?"

"It was tempting," Clara said. "But no, I didn't push you."

"I remember arguing." His fingers explored the lump forming on the side of his head. "Were we arguing over something?"

"You were the only one arguing," she said. Now hush, don't try to talk."

He pulled his hand away, holding it near his face, blinking at his fingertips stained red. He turned to Clara with a questioning expression.

"You're bleeding a little," she said. "You banged your head pretty hard when you fell."

He sat forward, gripping his knees hard, breath wheezing harshly.

"Doctor, are you okay?"

"I don't think I do well with blood," he said with an audible gulp.

"Then it's lucky for you I'm not squeamish." Clara stepped over his inert form and sat on the bottom step to get a better look at the wound on his scalp. "I need to clean that up,' she said. "D'you remember where you left the first-aid kit?"

He ran a shaking hand across his forehead. "Do I have one?"

"Of course," Clara said. "That old-fashioned leather doctor's grip? Last place I saw it was Arcturus Prime, I think."

She stood and began walking around the control room, making wider and wider circles, stopping to peer under the consoles and control boards.

"Remember the carnivorous sand beetles, the ones we didn't discover until after we'd been lying on the beach for an hour? We spent the next few days covered in antiseptic cream and plasters and-"

She dropped to her hands and knees, crawling under the main console. "Found it," she called.

She set the grip down, fingers lingering over the soft, weathered nap and opened the bag wide, peering inside. She quickly located gauze and antiseptic, ripping open the paper packet and carefully removing the lid from the bottle. The acrid smell of the liquid made her blink while she moistened the gauze.

"This will probably sting a little," she said.

Clara gently combed her fingers through his matted hair, cleaning the crusted blood away. When she exposed the laceration and dabbed antiseptic on it, he sucked in a quick breath, closing his eyes tightly. She patted his arm in what she hoped was a comforting manner. He was bearing her ministrations stoically. A little too stoically for Clara's liking. She'd feel better if he'd protested a bit more.

"It doesn't look too bad," she said when she'd finished, mostly to fill the silence. "But it's still oozing a little."

She opened another paper packet and laid the square of cotton against the wound. "Hold that there for a minute."

He raised a hand wordlessly and Clara sat back to study his face. The unhealthy pallor had disappeared but now he was flushed and sweating, mouth hanging open, breath wheezing slightly. She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, frowning when she felt heat beneath her fingers. She'd almost forgotten about his cold. She touched his wrist, moving his arm and gently pulling the gauze away.

"Bleeding stopped," she said, doing a quick exploration over the rest of his scalp as she watched him carefully for any signs of discomfort.

"You're very good at this," he said.

"Girl Guides," she explained. "Though it took me a while to earn my First Aid badge. It was so boring making slings out of bed sheets and patching up imaginary wounds. World travel," she said, sitting back. "Now that was a fun one."

He smiled a blink-and-you-miss-it smile before his strained expression returned. Before Clara could ask what was wrong, he'd bent double, arm wrapped around his midsection, supporting his ribs as a sudden coughing fit seized him. He wobbled and she moved close to him, placing a hand against his chest. He gripped her fingers, squeezing tightly.

As the paroxysm passed he released her and pressed his fingertips against his skull as if he were trying to hold it together.

"Headache?" Clara asked.

"Such a benign word," he said. "'Head explosion,' or maybe 'head supernova' captures the sensation a little more accurately." He squinted, trying to locate the bag. "Did you happen to see my sonic in there?"

"I don't think so," Clara said. "But I'll check again."

Loud clanking and rustling filled the control room as she searched.

"Hmm. Portable defibrillator...field surgery kit...ugh, is that a bone saw? And those look like EKG leads." She pulled a collection of wires out into the light. "No sonic, sorry."

"Medical bay, then" he said, extending an arm. "Help me up."

"I don't think you should be moving around," Clara said. "You were out cold for a few minutes and if your head is hurting that badly-"

"Which is exactly why I need to get to the medical bay. Are you going to help me or not?"

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Grab the railing and put your other arm around my shoulders."

She grasped him tightly around the waist. He yelped as her hand contacted his side and she moved her arm to a higher position.

"Sorry," she said. "On the count of three, we'll stand, okay? One..." She braced herself, trying to take most of his weight against her. "Two," she said, beginning to lift upward. "And three."

He grunted, face contorted, as he used all his strength trying to raise himself. It seemed to Clara she was pulling him up more than he was standing on his own.

"Feeling steady?" she asked, when he'd finally straightened.

"Steady-ish," he said, his voice growing a little stronger.

"'Ish' is good," Clara said. "'Ish' works for us right now."

He began taking slow, careful steps, sliding each foot along the floor of the control room instead of lifting it. She fell into step beside him, one hand resting gently on his back, glancing at him to assess his condition; still flushed, still sweating, concentrating hard on moving his feet.

"What's in the medical bay?" she asked quietly.

"Spectroscopic scanner," he said. "Normally I'd just use the delta eleven setting on the sonic screwdriver, but I'm not sure where it is."

"And the spectroscopic scanner is necessary because-?"

"Diagnostic scan," he said. "A period of unconsciousness after head trauma followed by a headache and blurred vision?" He bumped into the center console, quickly righting himself. "All suggestive of-

"-a concussion," Clara said, finishing the sentence for him. "So maybe we should take you to A&E instead."

"You try explaining a binary vascular system to an Earth doctor," he said. "It never ends well. For anyone."

He stopped for a moment, using the edge of his sleeve to dab sweat from his upper lip.

"And the medical bay is closer," he said. "If I remember correctly, and if the TARDIS hasn't redecorated, it's through this door, first room on the right."

They entered the corridor, making their way slowly. Clara peered to the right, seeing only a blank expanse of white wall.

"Okay," she said. "I'm looking to the right. Where is it?"

"Maybe it's to the left," he said. "I'm a little turned around." He indicated a double door with a large control panel at one side. "I think that's it."

She nudged the controls with her elbow, keeping a firm grip on the Doctor. The door opened smoothly with a soft hum, revealing more corridors branching off in all directions.

"Nope," she said. "Next best guess?"

"I'm not sure, Clara, and I'm..." He reached out an arm blindly, staggering against the wall. "I'm really not feeling very well." He began a slow slide toward the floor.

Clara closed her eyes for a moment, turning slowly in place, waiting for the now-familiar sensation, that itch in the back of her mind, the indication of which direction to take. When she opened her eyes again, it was with the absolute certainty that she should turn to her right. As she faced the blank wall, a door shimmered into her vision.

"Here it is, Doctor," she said. He straightened, propelling himself forward using the wall as leverage, nearly stumbling headlong into her. He braced himself in the doorway, blinking at the interior which was dominated by a large expanse of table and chairs and a double refrigerator.

"This isn't the medical bay."

"No, it isn't," she said. "Pretty sure this is the kitchen. One of them at least."

She helped him hobble to the table, easing him down to a chair even as he protested.

"You did hear me, didn't you?" he said in a tired voice. "Not the medical bay. Not sure why we're staying here."

"Yeah, funny thing about the TARDIS," she said, wrenching open the door to the refrigerator. "She likes to think she's a step ahead of us. And to be fair, she usually is."

He rested his elbows on the table, supporting his head with his hands. "So?"

"So," she said "There's something in here we need, and we don't even realize it yet; otherwise she wouldn't have led us here."

Clara bent to look through the contents of the fridge, pushing aside bowls and lidded containers barely containing substances of various consistencies and colors.

"Everything in here looks like a science experiment gone wrong," she said.

"Most of them are."

She pushed aside a bowl of purple gelatinous chunks and pulled out a bottle of orange liquid. "Here we go," she said. "Do you remember on Lotera Six, a few days after we rescued the royal family? I've never been so sick in my life."

"I did warn you not to drink the water."

"I didn't drink it, I fell face-first into a puddle while I was chasing after you."

She gave the bottle a quick shake, cracked the top and plunked it down in front of him. He reached out, turning it so he could read the label.

"Lucozade?"

"Yeah, I lived on it for a few days." Her expression softened as she remembered that first miserable night when she could barely move from bed, and the Doctor showing up in her room with an armload of the stuff, complaining all the while.

"Don't think I ever said thank you for taking care of me."

He shrugged. "It was that or listen to you moan."

"Well, now it's my turn to take care of you," she said. "You've had nothing but coffee today, you're running a fever, and you need fluids."

"I'm not running a fever," he said. "I fell down the stairs. Big difference, Clara. You may lose your first aid badge at this rate."

She stepped close to him. He never took his gaze from her, eyes huge as they watched her. How an ancient time lord with grey hair could suddenly resemble a woebegone five year old Clara wasn't sure, but she couldn't resist cradling his face between her hands.

"You have a fever," she said, emphasizing each word.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Why would I have a fever?"

"May have slipped your mind in all the excitement," she said. "But you're ill. Miserable cold? Ring any bells?"

"Oh," he said, nodding his head. "Is that why my throat hurts?"

"Probably."

"And why I can't breathe properly through my nose?"

"That would do it," Clara said.

"I'm not having a very good day, am I?"

"You've had better," she said, then tapped the bottle. "Drink up."

She opened the freezer next, blinking against a rush of vapor from the interior. When her vision cleared, she pulled out a thick plastic bag, poking a finger at it. The substance was dark green and nicely pliant. Spinach? It didn't matter.

"Here," she said, tossing the bag to the table in front of the Doctor. He'd already gotten through half of the Lucozade and was acting a little brighter. He looked suspiciously at the package.

"I'm not hungry."

"It's not to eat," she said. "It's for your eye, it's starting to bruise already."

He lifted the bag, squinting at it.

"This is a frozen cross-section of the thymus gland of a Slitheen."

"Urgh." She wrinkled her nose. "Not exactly a bag of frozen peas, but it'll do."

He sighed and pressed the bag to his face.

"Hang on," Clara said. "Slitheen. Isn't that the story you were telling the kids at Christmas?" She mimed unzipping her forehead. "They're real aliens?"

"Oh, they're real enough," he said, giving a hard shudder, whether from the cold or from horror she couldn't tell. "And between you and me, I have my suspicions about the matron at the West Country. One of the boys tipped me off. I should go back and investigate."

"Yeah, maybe some other time," she said, frowning as a thought struck her. "Could that contaminate the wound?" she asked, motioning to the bag.

"Could what contaminate the wound?" He was beginning to shiver in earnest now, teeth chattering.

"You opened your head on a step and now you have Slitheen thymus resting on it. Not sure the antiseptic I used covers alien germs."

"I d...don't know."

"Well, let's not take any chances." She took the bag from him, and holding it between thumb and forefinger, tossed it back into the freezer compartment.

"Feeling strong enough to help me look for the medical bay now?" she asked, turning back to him.

"I'm not sure I need it," he said, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. "And it's an awful little room, no windows, cold and clinical. And the scanner is so bossy."

Clara considered this for a moment. "The scanner is...sorry, did you say it was bossy?"

"Yes, yes, it scans for physical anomalies," he said. "And if it finds anything, it blares an absolutely deafening alarm and it can't be silenced until you ingest whatever medication is indicated." He dug his fingers into his temples, mouth drawn down in a frown. "Bossy."

"Head still bothering you?" she asked.

"Mm," he agreed. "And I'm aching all over."

"Maybe we should at least try to find a, I don't know, do you have a medicine cabinet or a dispensary somewhere?

His fingers stilled and he glanced up at her. "Why?'

"Maybe there's something you can take for the headache and fever," she said. "Some Time Lord-y version of paracetamol?"

"Oh." He shrugged "That would actually just be paracetamol."

You're kidding," Clara said, sounding slightly disappointed. "I don't get to poke through any ancient or arcane Gallifreyan remedies?"

"Afraid not."

"You should have said something, I have paracetamol in my bag." She tapped a finger against her lips. He looked better, seemed to be thinking more clearly, but something was bothering her. "What about the concussion?" she said. "Shouldn't we check for that?"

He stood, straightening slowly and digging a fist into his lower back. "I only need a quick scan to make sure I haven't fractured anything," he said. "The sonic can take care of that and I'm almost certain I left it in my bedroom this morning..." His voice trailed off suddenly and he coughed once.

Clara nodded. "So, sonic screwdriver and a handful of paracetamol should fix you up, eh?" She looped an arm through his, leading him to the door. "Come on, then."

The Doctor hung back as she stepped out into the corridor. "Think I'll look for it later," he said.

"Or we could look for it now, together," Clara said. "It can't be far."

She wandered a few feet along the corridor, hands trailing along the wall. The doors she passed seemed illusory, fading when she turned toward them, until she reached a large door at the bend in the corridor.

"This is it," she called to him.

"Are you certain? Because I'm sure it was a little farther along." He pointed in the opposite direction. "I think we take this corridor to the left and then it's six doors down," he said, gesturing vaguely. "Or it might have been three corridors to the right and two doors up. Or you know, I could always go back to my chair, that was perfectly comfortable."

Clara turned and waited patiently, arms folded, until he stopped talking.

"Finished?"

"Yes."

"Okay, first of all," she said. "If you think I'm letting you anywhere near an open stairway until you're fully recovered, you're bonkers. And secondly, I know this is your bedroom and you know it too, but for some reason you're scared to go in."

"I'm not scared, Clara," he said, looking over her shoulder to avoid her scrutiny.

"You are. I can see it all over your face." One corner of her mouth lifted in a wry smile. "I can plug in a nightlight if you like, or find a plush teddy for you to cuddle."

"Ha, ha."

She grasped the latch and started to turn it. The Doctor extended one hand, as if to stop her. His unease was nearly contagious and Clara found her heart rate picking up as she peeked into the room. She froze in place, the door riding open smoothly to reveal a room that was an exact duplicate of the bedroom in her flat, right down to the curtains, quilted headboard and scatter pillows.

"There, you see?" he said, backing away from the door and plucking at Clara's sleeve, trying to get her to follow. "There's been some confusion, this is obviously yours."

"If this is my room," she said, in a fake reasonable tone, "Then why is your sonic screwdriver in the middle of the bed?"

Clara wheeled on him, trying in vain to meet to his eyes.

"Care to explain, Doctor?"

**A/N: Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! Here, have a slightly concussed, dazed and feverish Twelve.**


	4. Chapter 4

"There is a perfectly good explanation, Clara, but it's very hard to think of it with you glaring at me like that."

She gave the Doctor one final challenging look then left him leaning against the doorframe. She stepped carefully around the room with a sense of unreality, fingers trailing along the fringed lamp on the dressing table, hands picking up and discarding the teal pillow from the floral-backed rocking chair.

"It's identical," she said, picking up a decorative box from the top of the dresser and brandishing it. "Right down to the very last detail. Why?"

He stood uncertainly, half in and half out the doorway, hands twitching at his sides. Clara couldn't tell if he were gathering his strength to enter the room or run away; he wouldn't make it far, regardless. Fatigue pulled at his body, dragging his features down, shoulders drooping. He gave a tired shrug, opened his mouth to reply and then shook his head.

"Okay," she said, suddenly relenting. "Never mind. Interrogation later. You're barely staying on your feet."

She replaced the box on the dresser, started to pull out a drawer and then stopped as a thought struck her.

"I'm looking for pyjamas," she said. "Your pyjamas, just so you know. If I find any of my things in here, we're going to have a very serious conversation about the nature of our relationship."

"Don't be ridiculous." He strode into the room, indignation giving him a sudden burst of energy. He reached past her and wrenched open the drawer, nearly tipping it out onto the floor.

"Empty," Clara said with a sigh of relief.

"I don't know what you were expecting," he grumbled, moving toward the middle of the room. "Frilly nightgowns perhaps?" He grabbed a pillow from the pile near the headboard and brushed off a spot in the middle of the bed. "And I don't need pyjamas."

"Oh, yes you do," she said, catching him by the arm before he could sit down. "I know this isn't my bed, not really, but you're going to change before you lie down."

"I don't need to change, Clara," he said shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "There's nothing wrong with what I'm wearing."

She scoffed. "Nothing wrong? Everything is damp from the rain and you've been wiping your nose and bleeding on that jacket all day." She pressed an emphatic finger into his chest. "You're changing."

"And I thought the medical equipment was bossy," he said under his breath, moving back to the dresser.

"I heard that."

He yanked open another drawer without looking at it, attention focused on Clara. "This is going to be empty too," he said. "They're probably all empty. I don't sleep that often and when I do, I don't require a change of clothes-"

His voice trailed off and she came to stand next to him, rifling a brightly colored stack of clothing. She unfolded a long-sleeved t-shirt in purple, draping it across her hand and running her fingers over it. "You look good in this color," she said, nodding her approval. "You should wear it more often. The hipster goth style is okay but-"

He snatched the shirt from her and opened the next drawer, pulling out the first pair of pyjama bottoms his hands landed on, in a garish red plaid pattern.

"Red and purple," she said. "Nice combo. And make sure you keep the stripey socks on, love those."

He muttered something she couldn't hear as he unzipped his jacket and shrugged out of it.

Clara bunched the material of her black skirt in both hands, studying it with a critical eye. "I should probably clean up, too," she said. "Jacket's not the only thing you've been bleeding on."

She smoothed one hand down her jumper, considering. She could always leave, walk back home and let the Doctor fend for himself, but in the time it took to grab a shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms for herself, she'd decided to stay.

"Be right back," she said over her shoulder, moving into the tiny en suite.

Clara stripped down to her underthings, kicking her skirt and twinset into a corner. She'd worry about washing everything later. Maybe the TARDIS had a laundrette somewhere. She stepped into the fleecy PJ bottoms next, securing the waistband with a knot and bending to roll the cuffs to a respectable length. She finally pulled the t-shirt over her head, sighing with pleasure as the supple cotton glided smoothly over her skin. She was practically swimming in it, the neckline hanging off her shoulder, but she didn't care. She'd never felt so comfortable.

"Why didn't you tell me you had these shirts?" she called through the door, knowing he was listening. "I would have borrowed one ages ago."

"That's why I never told you," he called back. "I knew if you got your hands on them I'd never see them again."

"Probably a wise decision."

Clara eyed the wall cabinet, curiosity warring with polite reserve. It wasn't a personality trait she was necessarily proud of, but she could never stop herself from snooping through other people's things. Curiosity won out and she eased the door open, trying to be quiet and discreet.

"I can hear you going through the cabinets, you know."

"Yeah," she said. "Not being nosy."

"Yes, you are."

"Yes, I am," she agreed. She pushed aside a stack of towels and peered into the back of the cabinet. Nothing but bars of wrapped soap and a bottle of her favorite brand of shampoo. "It's all boring stuff, though," she said. "I was expecting industrial-grade eyebrow tweezers or a shelf full of hair care products."

"Sorry to disappoint," he said, the sound of his voice growing fainter as he moved away from the door. She snicked the cabinet door closed and grabbed a hair elastic from the ceramic dish on the sink. She paused as she tied her hair back, realizing she'd reached automatically, expecting it to be there.

When she returned to the bedroom, the Doctor was sitting against the headboard, knees drawn up, a handful of tissues pressed to his nose, sonic screwdriver in his lap.

"Hiya," she said, bouncing slightly as she joined him on the bed. "Sniffles getting worse?"

Yes, the sniffles are getting worse," he said, very much upon his dignity. "Or I have a cerebrospinal fluid leak from the fall. One of those."

"Oh, dear," she said, affecting a mock tone of concern. "Spinal fluid leak, that sounds serious."

"It is serious, Clara," he said. "You could sound a bit more worried."

She nabbed the sonic from him, twirling it slightly in her fingers. "So we need to find out if you cracked your skull when you fell. How do you do the scan thingy for broken bones?"

"Careful," he said, voice muffled. "That's a delicate instrument."

She scoffed. "Seriously? It has two buttons, buzzes and lights up like a child's toy and you toss it around constantly. It's hardly delicate."

He reached out for the sonic screwdriver, one eyebrow raised. Clara sighed and placed it carefully into his waiting hand. He buffed it slightly on his shirt before holding it close to his face, squinting at the controls. His fingers fiddled with the raised concentric rings until the green light flashed twice and the prongs sprang open. He held the screwdriver at an angle near the site of the injury, adjusting his grip and frowning as his hand wobbled and it dropped from his fingers to the surface of the bed.

"This is so awkward," he said, retrieving the screwdriver and re-adjusting the setting. "Maybe I should use a mirror."

"Or you could let me run the scan," Clara said. She'd been waiting as patiently as she could, eager to take control of the situation. "Just tell me what to do."

He glanced over at her, passing the sonic from hand to hand. She gave him a playful nudge.

"Don't give me that doubtful look, like I'm going to scramble your marvelous brain. How hard can it be?"

She vaulted over the top of him to reach his other side, giggling when he flinched and curled into himself. "I'm not going to jump on you," she said. "Not yet, at least. Not until I know you're okay."

He sighed as he handed the sonic screwdriver to her.

"Keep it at a consistent distance from the skin, approximately five centimeters," he said, a worried note creeping into his voice. "And don't jostle it while you're scanning. Can you manage that?"

"Can I manage that?" She pushed her sleeves up her arms and held her hand flat, palm down, for his inspection. "See? Steady as the proverbial rock. I'm a school teacher. You show any signs of nervousness in front of the Coal Hill kids, you are dead meat." She pulled her sleeves back down. "I can manage it."

He nodded. "Scan the area from here," he said, pointing to the top of his head, "to here," indicating a spot along his jawline.

"Got it," she said. "Turn your head a little." He looked to the side, closing his eyes and tilting his chin up slightly.

Clara's thoughts shifted from her task to the Doctor himself. She'd caught traces of his unique scent before, sometimes in discarded clothing, sometimes when he leaned close to her while explaining an esoteric finding or theory. She knew if she buried her nose in the delicate patch of skin just behind his earlobe, now visible and directly in front of her, she could breathe in his scent fully. She was seized with a sudden need to do so and lowered her head toward his. The Doctor's irritated voice brought her out of her reverie.

"What are you waiting for?"

"Sorry," she said, jumping backward slightly and shaking her head, trying to bring herself back to her task. Best to put those thoughts back where they came from, wherever that happened to be.

One corner of her lip caught between her teeth as she activated the sonic, keeping an even pressure on the controls while she moved it slowly from point to point, hand never wavering. As it moved past the ending point, Clara gently released the button and blew out the breath she'd been holding.

"Turn off that lamp,will you?" the Doctor said, motioning to the bedside table as he took the sonic screwdriver from her. He aimed it at the ceiling, projecting an image of incomprehensible words and associated numbers. Clara tried to follow the rapidly scrolling information, but found she couldn't keep up, settling instead for watching his face. His lips were pursed, expression impassive, eyes darting back and forth as he read.

"Contusion," he muttered. "Minor laceration...elevated core temperature. We knew all of that already." He thumbed a button, the information disappearing in a wink. "No fracture," he said, twirling the sonic in his hands. "And no evidence of intracranial injury."

She mouthed the last words to herself, trying to puzzle it out.

"No concussion," he explained.

"Guess that means your hard head protected you."

"I suppose so," he said with a distracted frown. She touched his arm lightly and he startled, turning wide eyes on her.

"Why do you still look worried?"

"Chest hurts a bit," he said in such a soft, small voice, Clara was once again reminded of a five year old. She had to turn very brisk in her manner to keep herself from leaning over for a good cuddle.

"You mean it hurts to breathe, or-?"

"No." He made a vague gesture along his right flank. "It just feels sore and achy."

"You landed on that side when you fell down the stairs," she said. "Maybe you cracked a rib."

He nodded, adjusting the screwdriver settings with his thumb. "Hands still feel steady?"

"Will the, uhm, scan work through clothing?" she asked.

"It will, but it's not as accurate." The Doctor sat forward, gathering his shirt in both hands, lifting it up around his chest and wincing in discomfort. She touched a reddened area over his ribs and he gave a quick shudder, gooseflesh rising on his skin.

"I'll be quick," she said.

He remained motionless, not even breathing until the scan was complete, then flopped back, limp and worn out, teeth chattering as he gave himself over to a fit of shivering.

Clara copied his earlier movements, pressing the bottom button and aiming the sonic toward the ceiling. His eyes followed the information.

"Contusion," he said through clenched teeth, trying to keep his voice steady. "No fracture. Upper respiratory infection and...well, that's unfortunate." He wrapped his arms around himself, tucking his chin into his chest.

"What is?" she said, her attention snapping back to the display above them. "What's unfortunate? I don't understand."

"Early stages of a secondary infection," he said.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I'm going to be parked in this alley for a bit longer than I originally planned."

"But you're going to be okay?"

"I would think so," he said. "Superior physiology and all."

Clara rolled her eyes and scooted to the end of the bed, unfolding a heavy quilt and pulling it up to cover him. He tucked his hands into the edge of the blanket, pulling it over his shoulder as he rolled over toward her.

"Comfy?" she asked.

He made a noncommittal noise and yawned, burrowing his head into the pile of pillows.

"Before you fall asleep," she said, "Maybe you can explain what happened earlier."

One eye opened momentarily. "Earlier?" he asked, voice blurry with fatigue. "I don't understand."

"Then I'll refresh your memory," Clara said, spreading her hand and ticking off each point on a finger as she spoke. "You're ill, have been for a few days now from the sound of it." One finger went down and the Doctor flinched slightly.

"You're running a fever and not that steady on your feet." Tick. Another finger.

"Then you wake up from a sound sleep, babbling about something important you're forgetting, and when you try to make it down the stairs, you fall and nearly kill yourself."

He looked so chastened then, eyes wide open and expression puzzled, she felt a quick pang of guilt and deliberately softened her tone before speaking again.

"What were you thinking?"

The Doctor shifted uneasily. "I was going to take you home," he said.

That was the important thing you forgot," she said, voice flat with disbelief. "Taking me home."

She folded her arms, leaning back against the headboard. She didn't want to look at him right now. She didn't want to remember how frightened and helpless she'd felt while he lay unresponsive in her lap. She didn't want to think about how worried she felt right this moment, wondering what secondary infection had taken hold of him and how he would respond. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the Doctor propping himself up on one elbow and felt a gentle touch on her arm.

"I wanted to take you home because I can't travel right now," he said, his tone begging her to understand. "I can't go anywhere until I've recovered and I know how bored you'd be, just hanging around-"

Clara twitched away from him. "Stop right there," she said. "Putting aside the fact that you couldn't operate a dodgem in your current condition, let alone a highly-complex transdimensional time machine, did I even ask you to take me home?:

"No, but-"

"No," she said. "You just assumed that's what I wanted and then nearly killed yourself trying to do something for me that I didn't even want done."

She jumped from the bed, feeling a sudden need to walk off her nervous irritation. He sat up, making a move as if he intended to follow, but then sat quietly, watching her instead. She circled the room once, giving the very familiar rocking chair a kick as she passed, stopping to watch it sway back and forth.

"Doctor," she said after a moment, her words cutting through the weighty silence. "In your opinion, would you say I'm intelligent?"

"For a resident of Earth, yes," he said.

"And I'm resourceful?" she said, not looking at him. "Decisive? Good under pressure?"

"All of those, Clara, but why-?"

"Then I can make up my own mind." she said. "And you're not to decide things on my behalf ever again, are we clear?"

"Of course."

She sighed, feeling all her anger and indignation leaving her in a rush.

"It's been a very long day," she said. "I need a cup of tea and an enormous plate of biscuits and maybe a pizza if I can sweet talk Franco's into delivering to a police box in a deserted alley."

"You're leaving?" he asked and then added quickly. "Not that I blame you."

Clara turned just in time to catch his fleeting look of disappointment and smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring manner.

"I'm coming back. Won't get very far dressed like this," she said, motioning to her oversized black t-shirt and navy pyjama bottoms spangled with tiny yellow galaxies. "I'll even let you have some pizza if you ask nicely."

"No pineapple this time."

"Don't press your luck." She tapped the wall on her way out the door and glanced over her shoulder at him, eyebrows raised. "And you still have some explaining to do."


	5. Chapter 5

"This is just like when I used to spend the night at my friend's house as a girl," Clara said, propped up on a pile of pillows, hands resting on her stomach, feeling drowsy and content. "We'd have a midnight feast and stay up for hours talking."

The Doctor lay motionless in bed beside her, curled so tightly into a pile of blankets that only an unruly mass of grey hair was visible.

"You're not very good at this, you know," she said. "You wouldn't eat any pizza and now you won't talk to me."

His only acknowledgment of her words was a slight frown as he burrowed more deeply into the quilts covering him. Clara rolled to her side, propping herself up on one elbow. She hooked her finger into the edge of the blankets and pulled them down, uncovering part of his face. How he managed to look so irritated using only one eyebrow, she had no idea.

"We'd give each other makeovers, too," she said. "And you never got your manicure this morning, did you?"

"Eyes closed, Clara," he said. "Not speaking. Does it suggest anything to you?"

"It suggests you're grumpy," she said. "You weren't sleeping."

"And how would you know that?" He pillowed his head on one arm and scowled at her. "Are you the expert on all things Doctor now?"

Clara considered it. "I think I might be," she said with a nod.

"Enlighten me, then."

"First point of information," she said. "You don't require much sleep, as you're so fond of reminding me."

She scooted a little closer to his warmth. Her thin t-shirt was doing little to protect her from the chill air settling around them.

"Second point of information," she said, "I didn't hear you snoring."

He gave an impatient huff. "I don't snore."

"Oh, please." Clara laughed. "With that nose? You snore with all the subtlety and finesse of a log chipper, even when you don't have a cold."

She felt a draft cut through the room and shivered, tucking her hands into her sleeves. Sitting up quickly, she scooted to the edge of the bed, swinging her legs over the side.

The Doctor lifted his head, studying her with a puzzled frown.

"Where are you going?" he asked, blinking slowly, eyes trying to track her movements.

"I'm sure you haven't noticed since you're all snug and comfortable over there," she said, "But it's freezing. I need another shirt or a jumper or something."

Clara stepped to the dresser, pulling out each drawer, picking up and discarding several items before finally settling on a oversized, button-up cardigan. She snugged it around herself and buried her hands in the front pockets. "I'm still cold," she announced, turning a longing eye to the thick blankets he'd refused to share all evening.

The Doctor sighed and tossed the quilts back.

"Come on then," he said, inviting her in with a quick gesture.

Clara wasted no time scrambling back into the bed.

"Thanks," she murmured, tucking her feet under the blankets and pulling them up to her chest.

"Now stop complaining," he said, rolling over and turning his back to her. "I'm trying to rest."

She huddled as close to him as she could without any actual physical contact, relishing the delicious warmth beginning to flow through her.

"You feeling any better?" she asked after a moment.

He cleared his throat but his voice was still raspy when he spoke. "Compared to what?"

"I know your head was hurting earlier," she said. "Did the paracetamol help?"

"Yes, it did," he said. "It also made me feel incredibly sick."

"Really?" Clara frowned, wondering how that had escaped her attention. "No wonder you didn't feel like eating anything."

"Or the headache made me feel incredibly sick," he said. "I'm not sure which. Either way, I didn't appreciate you waving the pizza under my nose."

"I'm sorry. You should have said something."

"I did. I said, 'Get that away from me.' You didn't take the hint."

"So you hit your head, you have a headache and you feel sick to your stomach, is that about right?"

He grunted and Clara raised herself on one elbow. She reached an arm across him, holding her hand outstretched in front of his face.

"How many fingers am I showing?" she asked.

He sighed. "I know what you're doing."

"Then humour me," she said, wiggling her fingers close to his nose. "How many?"

"Somewhere between one and five," he said.

"Be a little more specific?" she said, wiggling her fingers again.

"I don't have a concussion, Clara," he said, batting her hand away and rolling to his back. "I have a headache because I'm ill, and I didn't react well to the paracetamol. That's all. The sonic screwdriver is patched directly into the medical bay scanners and it would have alerted to anything serious."

"But what if I made a mistake running the scans?" she asked.

"You didn't," he said. "Don't worry."

Clara flopped down next to him, chewing her bottom lip pensively, unable to keep a concerned frown from her face.

He graced her with one of his rare smiles. "Stop looking at me like that," he said. "In a few days time, if I don't die of boredom first, I'll be back to myself again."

Clara smiled back and rested her head against his shoulder. "Promise?"

"I promise, Clara."

She sighed, feeling her eyes beginning to grow heavy, lulled by his quiet breathing and the low background hum of traffic.

"Those street noises are cozy," she murmured. "Always puts me right to sleep. But I can't tell if they're coming from outside or if-"

The Doctor spoke up quickly, cutting her off. "Unlikely, given the impenetrable plasmic shell of the TARDIS."

"-or if the sounds I usually hear in my flat are being duplicated, too," she said, now fully awake.

"Oh."

Clara placed her hand flat against his chest. When he tried to wriggle away, she splayed her fingers and pressed a little harder, holding him in place. She didn't care how late it was or how much his head hurt, they were going to talk about this.

"Why, Doctor?" she asked softly.

He cut his eyes over to hers and then looked away. "Why what?" he asked, his tone communicating a great desire to drop the subject altogether.

"My bedroom," she said. "The TARDIS could recreate anything, couldn't she? You could sleep under the starfield of the Eight-Burst Nebula," Clara's voice grew soft and full of wonder as her mind began to turn over all the possibilities. "Or inside the dome of the Pantheon in ancient Rome or on the singing sands of Querterain. So why would you choose the poky little bedroom of a walk-up flat in London?"

The Doctor craned his neck, looking past her. "Did you have another box of tissues anywhere?"

"On the nightstand right next to you," she said, pointing in that direction.

"If I can find it among all the empty cups and biscuit crumbs, you mean." He sat up, reaching one hand toward the headboard to steady himself.

"You're avoiding my question, Doctor."

"I'm not avoiding it," he said. "It's just if you insist on snuggling like this, there's the distinct possibility I could sneeze or drip something noxious on you. I'd rather be prepared."

"You'd rather not answer me," she said. "I know all of your tricks by now."

"I don't have tricks, Clara," he said. "I'm not a magician."

"Leaving aside the whole magician thing for another day," she said, "One of your tricks is turning away from me when you don't want to talk about something, like you're doing now."

She watched, amused and irritated by turns as he fidgeted the box of tissues in his hands, saying nothing. She was tired of dancing around the issue.

"Your bedroom on the TARDIS is an exact replica of the bedroom in my flat," she said. "Tell me why."

He took his time settling himself against a pile of pillows, ignoring her as he straightened the blankets over his knees. When minutes passed and he still refused to speak, Clara could stand the tension no longer.

"Let me guess," she said, propping herself up next to him. "You had the TARDIS recreate my room because you miss me so much when I'm not here."

She gave his shoulder a playful nudge, waiting for his sarcastic comeback, wanting to share a laugh at such a ridiculous idea, but he remained silent.

"Doctor?" She turned her head slightly, wishing she could read his expression. Was he angry at her? Embarrassed? She regretted her flippant attempt at a joke, not even sure why she'd brought it up.

Of course she missed him when he wasn't around. It wasn't surprising. He brought adventure and excitement into her life, a change from the boring routine of work, home, takeaway, and marking. But why would he miss her? An insignificant girl like herself, with all of time and space for the taking? There was no reason she could think of, none at all.

His quiet words broke into her thoughts.

"It's true, Clara."

She held her breath, wondering if he would say more. And when he spoke again, it all came tumbling out in a rush as if he needed to say it quickly or not at all.

"When we're together you're either arguing with me, or looking over my shoulder and nattering on when I'm trying concentrate, or asking annoying questions when I want to read, and sometimes I wish you'd go away because you're infuriating and exasperating and you take up too much space, but when you're not here, I miss you."

Before Clara could respond, he stood abruptly, staggering to the side and grabbing the nightstand for support. He stalked around the room, muttering to himself while he stacked empty teacups, brushed crumbs from the nightstand into the bin and emphatically fluffed the pillows on the rocking chair. When he ran out of energy and tasks to occupy himself, he sank down to the bench at her dressing table and rested his chin in his hand.

Clara drew her legs up, clasping her arms tightly around them, her head to one side as she watched him play idly with one of her necklaces on the jewelry rack. The only sound in the room was the gentle clack of beads as he rolled them between his fingers.

He'd speak when he felt ready, she knew that. There was no rushing him. And maybe he wouldn't feel like talking at all. Maybe they'd never mention it again and honestly, why did it matter? He could sleep wherever he liked. He didn't owe her an explanation, even if she wanted one. She couldn't remember now why she'd even cared.

His eyes met hers in the reflection of the mirror and they stared at each other silently for a moment before he spoke.

"Do you ever have trouble sleeping, Clara?"

She shrugged. "Yeah, sometimes. It happens to everyone."

He turned to face her. "And does anything help you fall asleep?"

I don't know," she said. "A cup of chamomile tea, I guess. Or I'll read a trashy tabloid or make clothing combinations in my head."

He nodded at everything she said and then frowned.

"Wait, did you say 'clothing combinations? Like which jumper goes with which skirt, that sort of thing?'"

"What's wrong with that? It's relaxing."

He gave her a doubtful look before continuing. "I have trouble sleeping, too."

Clara laughed. "No, you don't," she said. "You can barely keep your eyes open around me. You're always falling asleep; in your chair, at your desk, and on a few memorable occasions while standing at the console controls, which is a pretty nifty trick now I think about it. And I can't even count the number of times I've caught you having a kip in my flat-." Her voice trailed off as some of the pieces began falling into place.

The Doctor lifted his eyes to hers and the expression she saw there made her move to where he was sitting. She stood in front of him, cupping her hands at the back of his neck, lacing her fingers together. He sighed softly, relaxing under her touch.

"We don't have to talk about this, Doctor," she said. "I understand now. All of this, the bedroom, it's because you miss me. It's normal. Everyone misses their friends when they're not around. A photograph may have been less trouble, but-"

"It's not just about missing you, Clara," he said. "Do you remember Christmas?"

"Course I do," she said, weaving her fingers into his hair. "Children's home? The figgy pudding incident? Not sure why you thought it was a good idea to tell the kids horrible stories about swamp leeches right before-"

"No, not the day," he said. "The town. On Trenzalore."

Clara took a deep breath, closing her eyes against the memories flooding her mind.

"Yes," she said. "I remember."

"Three hundred years," he said. "Night after night after endless night, always on guard. And every time I close my eyes I'm back in that bell tower, waiting for the next attack." He drew in a quavering breath. "I never feel safe enough to sleep, Clara. Not unless you're with me."

She remained silent as she ran her fingers along the coarse strands near his scalp, repeating the movements over and over like a ritual, trying to comfort herself as well as him.

"I can't expect you to stay with me all the time," he said. "You have your own life. So when you're not here-"

He didn't finish his sentence, making a vague gesture that encompassed the room.

Clara's heart clenched in her chest at the idea of her Doctor, alone in the TARDIS, tired and frightened, pursued by ghosts of painful memories. She smoothed the curls that were sticking up at the side of his head, wrapping one around her finger and giving it a gentle tug.

"That's either the sweetest thing I've ever heard," she said, "or the creepiest."

"I'm sorry, I'll change it back if you want me to."

"No, leave it," she said. "Now I'll know where to find these great shirts, at least."

He considered this. "I'll have to hide them again," he said, leaning his head against her.

"I shouldn't have said anything."

She continued stroking his hair gently until she heard him make a noise low in his throat, a bass rumble of discomfort. Her fingers stilled.

"Am I hurting you?"

"You could never hurt me," he said, soft words escaping on a sigh. He frowned then, eyes growing distant.

"But something's wrong," she said, lifting his chin with one hand, studying his face closely.

"It's nothing," he said, jerking his head away irritably.

She placed the back of her hand against his cheek, surprised to find his skin hot to the touch. A hard shudder wracked him and he wrapped his arms tightly around himself.

"I think you're running a fever again," Clara said. "Are you feeling ill?"

She knew it was an odd question to ask when he'd been sniffling and sneezing all day, but he suddenly seemed very sick to Clara, face pallid and strained, body shaking with chills. He nodded and pressed a hand to his chest, wheezing as he struggled to take in a full breath. .

Clara stood staring at him for a moment, her mind racing. What was wrong with him and why was it happening so damn fast?

"Earlier, after the scan," she said. "You mentioned a…what did you call it?" She tried to recall the term he'd used, but worry was making her mind go blank. "An infection," she said, clicking her fingers. "A secondary infection of some sort, that was it. Could it pop up this quickly?"

He shrugged one shoulder, his energy draining from him visibly with that small movement.

"Never mind, " she said, taking his hands and coaxing him to his feet. "You look absolutely horrible. You need to lie down while I figure out what to do for you."

He staggered rather than walked the few steps to the bed, falling heavily into the blankets. Clara sat next to him, keeping one eye on him while he shivered and moaned. She glanced around the room, pressing her fingers to her lips, hoping for a sudden inspiration when her gaze fell on the sonic screwdriver. She lifted it gingerly from its spot on the nightstand, fingers hovering over the raised rings.

"We're going to find out what's wrong with you," she said, brandishing the screwdriver where he could see it. "Let's hope you didn't change the settings from last time."

He rolled his shirt up to his chest without a word and clenched his teeth tightly, trying to control his trembling as Clara began the scan. The screwdriver wobbled in her grip and she clamped down hard on her wrist with her opposite hand to keep it steady. A rivulet of sweat worked its way down her forehead while she concentrated.

The instant the green light flickered off, Clara blew out a relieved sigh. She flipped the screwdriver over, trying to find the display button, but her attention was drawn to a sudden alarm tone audible in the room, low but insistent.

"What's that? she asked, looking around, not really expecting an answer. "It sounds like it's coming from inside the TARDIS."

She made a move as if to stand and he reached out for her.

"No," he murmured, "Don't leave me."

"I won't, Doctor," she said, grasping his hand as the alarm grew steadily louder.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: An update! Sorry for the long wait. Please come to my Tumblr page and tell me lovely things even if you don't mean them; writing has been a hard slog lately.**


	6. Chapter 6

"What is it?" Clara asked, not expecting an answer from him. "It's not the cloister bell, I've heard that before."

She turned around, eyes searching the door, hoping for some kind of clue. The light visible through the cracks seemed no different than usual. The Doctor muttered something unintelligible to her, head tossing restlessly on the pillow. She brushed back damp curls from his forehead, removing her hand from his grasp.

"I'm sorry," she said. "but I have to check this out, something's wrong. I'll be right back."

Clara hurried to the door, flung it open, wincing against the blare of the alarm echoing through the corridor.

She didn't need a nudge from the TARDIS to find her way this time, the clamor was leading her in the right direction and the closer she drew to the source of the sound, the louder the alarm tone shrilled. She clapped her hands over her ears.

"I'm not like him you, you know," she shouted. "I'm not going to get distracted and wander off halfway there, so you can lower the volume." She lifted her hands cautiously, prepared to cover them again but found the noise greatly reduced. "Thanks."

Clara localized the alarm tone to a single room at the bend in the corridor, a reddish glow visible around the door frame as she approached it. She took a deep breath, weighing whether or not to step in. If it were something dangerous beyond that door, she was on her own.

She brushed her fingers against the metallic surface and the door slid open revealing a dimly-lit and windowless room. Except for a grouping of large screens dominating the back wall, it looked like every GPs office she'd ever found herself in, everything white and chrome and clinical, a low table set in the middle of the floor.

She stepped into the space, attention drawn to the middle monitor filled with circular script and figures, flashing red in rhythm with the rise and fall of the alarm. This was the medical bay, then, and whatever triggered the warning had to do with the Doctor.

"None of this makes any sense at all," she said, voice rising in frustration. "And he's not here to help me. I thought you were supposed to translate everything."

Clara emphasized her words by stabbing a finger at the screen. She made a noise of surprise as everything on the screen flickered, the background color changing and familiar English words replacing those of the circular script. Touchscreen, she could understand that.

She took a deep breath to clear her mind. _Respiratory system, cardiovascular system, immune system_...she recognized the words but the figures still meant nothing to her. Might as well still be untranslated for all she understood. _Elevated cytokines?_

From behind she heard a faint click and the whir of the door panels sliding open but she was too distracted by the screens to think much of it. At the sound of his raspy voice behind her, she whirled toward the door. The Doctor was leaning against the wall for support, squinting over her shoulder toward the monitors.

"The alarm, Clara," he said, each word sounding like an effort. "It's the medical scanners."

"Yeah, got that much, thanks," she said. She divided her attention between where he stood and the information flashing on the screen. "But what does it mean? What's wrong with you?"

He pressed a hand to his chest, shoulders straining as he tried to draw in a breath.

"Secondary infection," he gasped. "Respiratory, progressing rapidly."

Clara crossed the room toward him. "Doctor, how in the hell did you make it here?" She studied his face closely. "You were barely conscious a few minutes ago."

"Looking for you," he said, swiping at his forehead with the back of his wrist. "I didn't know-"

The rest of his sentence was lost as he gave a hard shudder, eyes rolling back as he slumped. Clara caught him around the waist, grunting as she felt his full weight fall against her.

"Oh, no, you don't," she said, half-dragging him the short distance toward the middle of the room. "I've had about enough of scraping you off the floor today."

She lowered him to the edge of what appeared to be a standard examination bench, all one unit, thinly padded with no pillows or comforts. His head lay heavy against her shoulder, his breathing raspy and labored. She eased him down to the surface, struggling to lift his legs to the table then positioned herself at his head, cupping his face between her hands. She stroked his cheeks with her thumbs, looking for any sign of consciousness. He was pallid, lips pale, completely drained of color except for slashes of purple around his eyes. He gave a slight moan, turning toward her touch.

"Hey you," she said softly. "Still with me?"

He murmured his assent. "What happened?"

"You nearly passed out again. Need to stop doing that, okay?"

He grasped the edges of the table, making a move as if to sit up and Clara stilled him with one hand.

"Yeah, step one in not passing out?" she said, "You lie still and let me help you. I know this infection is serious or the scanners wouldn't be freaking out, so just tell me what I need to do."

His fever-bright eyes focused on hers briefly and he lifted his chin, making a slight gesture toward the bank of cabinets along the back wall. The cabinets had no handles Clara could see. She ran her fingertips along the edges, trying to find a hidden latch, then pushed at the corner of one door, sighing in relief when it popped open at her touch. A survey of the interior revealed intimidating medical equipment, tightly-stoppered clear and amber bottles and sealed boxes labeled in unreadable circular script.

"But what do I need from here?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder. "I can't tell one thing from another."

Then at the corner of her vision she saw an inset light illuminating the middle cabinet. Without even understanding what she was doing, Clara popped the latch and opened it wide. A small diode, pulsing with the alarm, indicated an amber bottle on the topmost shelf. As soon as she lifted it from its spot, the alarm stopped.

Her ears ringing in the sudden silence, Clara carried it over to where he lay, trying to read the script engraved in the side.

"Doctor?"

At the sound of her voice, his eyelids fluttered, but he was too tired to keep them open for long. He nodded to indicate he was listening.

"I think you're supposed to take whatever this is," Clara said holding the container carefully between both hands. She lifted it into his line of sight and he squinted at the proffered bottle. Clara worked the stopper free and held the bottle to her nose, taking a deep sniff of the liquid inside. It didn't smell like much of anything.

"It's not that bad," she said, then she caught the full scent and coughed, her eyes watering. It smelled like the stuff she used to clear the drains but she wasn't going to tell him that.

"I know I told you to lie still a few minutes ago," she said. "But you need to sit up so you don't choke."

He nodded, bracing himself with his arms. Clara watched with heart pounding as he struggled to lift himself, a rivulet of sweat working its way down his cheek. She reached out to help him, wincing as his strength gave out and he thudded back to the table.

"Sorry," he whispered.

Clara frowned. "It's okay," she said, sliding one hand under his head and raising it as high as she could. With her other hand she held the bottle to his lips. The Doctor jerked away from her, nose wrinkling at the scent and she gasped, fumbling the container and nearly dropping it.

"I know it smells terrible," she said, "and it probably tastes worse, but you still need to take it."

He kept his head turned stubbornly to the side. Her arm was starting to ache from holding him up and her palm was growing slippery with his sweat. She brought the bottle up again.

"Doctor, please," she said. "You're so ill and I don't know what else to do for you."

She tipped the bottle slightly. He sighed, rolling his head back toward her, lips parting. The greenish liquid began to trickle into his mouth slowly, thick and viscous, and Clara averted her gaze, feeling a sudden wave of revulsion. Anything that looked and smelled that horrid couldn't possibly be helpful.

She couldn't tell from her position, but he seemed to be holding the liquid in his mouth without swallowing. She didn't blame him, but the medicine would do him no good if it all trickled back out again. Just when she was afraid she'd have to stroke his throat like a stubborn cat to get it down, he gulped and started coughing.

"I know, I know," she said, setting the bottle aside. "I know it's awful, I'm sorry."

The coughing grew more violent, his hand flailing in the air. Clara caught it in hers, supporting him around the shoulders with one arm as he turned, clutching the edge of the table. He continued coughing and spluttering and gave a painful-sounding retch.

"Are you going to be sick?" she asked, searching around frantically for a bin or anything else he could use. Oh god, what if she'd chosen the wrong thing from the cabinet? He'd never had a chance to look at it before she forced it down his throat. And if he was having a reaction, it was too late to do anything now. She rubbed frantic circles on his back while he shivered, throat working as he struggled to keep the medication down. After a moment he relaxed, collapsing back to the table's surface.

Clara retrieved the bottle and swirled it gently, trying to determine how much he'd ingested.

"There's still about half left, Doctor," she said, not wanting to put him through it again unless she had to.

"Enough," he said, voice quavery and hoarse. "I've had enough."

She frowned, using her thumb to wipe away a drop of the liquid from his chin. She was rewarded with a faint smile and she swallowed against a lump in her throat.

"You feeling any better?"

Her voice sounded very young and frightened to her own ears. She knew nothing could possibly work that quickly but she was desperate for some sign, anything to take away the creeping dread in her belly because he didn't just look ill, he looked like he was shutting down, dying in front of her, his breath slowing. She startled when he whispered her name.

"Clara," he said, voice weak and beginning to slur, "Wha'ever happens-" His brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to force the words out. "Don' be...frightened-"

"Why? What's going to happen?" She straightened quickly, not sure whether to keep an eye on him or watch for danger in their surroundings. "Doctor?"

His head rolled to one side, face going slack. Clara lifted one of his hands and placed it in her own, hoping to feel his fingers intertwine with hers. She would even welcome an irritated twitch as he snatched it away, anything except this nothingness, his hand unmoving and limp in hers. He looked peaceful at least, the strain gone from his face, and although she tried to tell herself he was sleeping, he seemed in a state beyond sleep, lying absolutely motionless.

He wouldnt just die, would he? He wasn't that ill and if he were, he'd regenerate. Clara knew this, but fear overrode her rational mind and she couldn't keep the horrible thoughts away. But he couldn't just slip away, slip out of this life while she stood unknowing and helpless to do anything about it.

She circled the table, gaze drawn to the overhead screen, the silence filling the room more ominous to her than the alarm had been. The numbers on the display were dropping rapidly.

"I don't know if you can hear me or not, Doctor," she said, turning back to him. "But you'd better hope that medication had a whopping big dose of sedative in it and you're just sleeping it off because if you regenerate now, just when I'm getting used to that face of yours, I will never forgive you, do you hear me? I will walk out that door and I'll keep walking and I won't come back."

Anger steeled her voice and straightened her spine, but it gave her strength only momentarily and as minutes passed with no movement, cold fear clutched at her again. She touched his face with her fingertips, hoping for warmth, even the heat of fever but his skin felt waxy and cold to the touch. Clara snatched her hand away as if burnt.

"Please be okay," she whispered. "I know you told me not to be frightened but I am, I can't help it."

She gathered him up, placing her head next to his, a sob catching in her throat when she couldn't feel his breath against her skin.

"Don't leave me, Doctor."


End file.
